


Hunting Song

by neifile7



Category: Torchwood
Genre: AU post-Cyberwoman, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neifile7/pseuds/neifile7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jack wants a little night music, he looks to make an old song new again.  AU, Post-Cyberwoman.</p><p> </p><p>AKA the rentboy AU I thought I would never, ever write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunting Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shane_mayhem](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shane_mayhem).



> Revised from a prompt at touchyerwood. First published on LJ on 4/9/10.

Jack pays off the cab and strolls into Sophia Gardens.  Damp night but warm, fine drizzle beading on the wool of his coat, but he’s pretty confident that he won’t have to go trolling the carparks to find what he’s looking for.  Takes a downpour to keep the hungry ones out of here, anyway, and he’s had plenty of practice with this species of quarry.

 

A hundred and fifty-plus years of fucking have left Jack with some fairly specific kinks, although he prefers to call them _refinements_. He craves the rush of first times. Not about new faces and bodies any more, though, newness not being so new and shiny these days, but certainly about the surprised arousal, the sights and sounds that only come once.  All the better if there’s some hidden note to strike, some hint of holding back.

 

And yet he’s still enough of a con and cheater at heart to want a sure thing, the thrill of knowing precisely what does it for his partner -- something that, good as he is, he knows you can only get over time.

 

So it’s only logical to combine the two, if you’re a cake-and-eat-it kind of guy.  And anyway, Jack learned a lot in a two-year time-loop about mixing his drugs and riding out the rollercoaster.  A lot about other things, too.

 

He’d known with this one, even before he’d slipped him the retcon the first time.  Definitely worth a repeat performance.

 

No big surprise the kid’s out on the game.  Cardiff’s full of hard-luck cases, and well, Jack knows just how fast life can slip through your fingers, what you thought was solid gone in a fingersnap.  Besides, first night they’d met, kid had strutted into his sightline like he owned the park, natural habitat and all that.  Convenient, though, means there’s no work involved, just the bills shoved into those tight tight jeans, and there’s an added rush to breaking down the pro detachment, making the boy beg for it.  Just like the first time.

 

Not too many out here tonight, and just as well.  Jack spots a few figures shadowed under the trees, some kneeling and hunched at their partners’ feet, some tangled shoulder-height. Some alone, faint voices inviting as he slips by.  He ignores them all, slopes down the path to the bench he knows will be staked out, turf etiquette observed.  He seats himself at one end, drapes arms along the back, stretches his legs.

 

It doesn’t take long. A sparking arch as a cigarette flicks through the air, and a slim shadow detaches itself from a tree opposite, ambles over, hands in pockets.  Lamplight from down the path glints faintly on the studded belt.

 

“Looking for something, mate?”

 

For answer, Jack spreads his legs, inviting the boy to step between them with a dip of his chin.  Details come into soft focus in the dim light: the mist frizzing the fine hair, gilding the lashes. That crotch, outlined in creased and faded denim, hovers closer, the belt buckle a sharp accent.  Jack puts a hand on the boy’s hip, lightly, just steadying for now.  “How much?” he says, pitching his voice low.

 

“Tenner I blow you, twenty if you bring my dick into it. Fifty for a fuck.”

 

Jack rolls slightly on one hip, extracts a few folded bills and passes them over.  “How about we have a little of this, a little of that,” he drawls. “You can start from where you are.”

 

Boy gets to his knees readily enough, and when Jack makes no move, pulls his buckle open deftly, runs a finger along the flies before undoing them as well.  ”Nice coat,” he says, and Jack grunts. Not too worried about triggers, really, and anyhow he’s carrying insurance in both pockets.

 

He’s always been good with his mouth, this one, even in the early days when he at least made a pretense of inexperience, all part of the persona he was hawking about the shop. He’s tonguing the head and deep-throating by turns now, one hand rolling Jack’s balls expertly, and the eyes that glance upward have just a little too much glitter in them, the hollowed cheeks a little too much flush. Probably high, then, nothing new there. Jack allows himself a few luxuriant minutes of pure arousal, slick and honeyed, but he’s not here for an impersonal blowjob, oh no; he reaches down, gently pulling him off and lifting his chin.  “Up,” he murmurs, “and trousers down.  Wanna good look at what I’m getting.”

 

The kid pushes up to standing, digs in his pockets before shoving the jeans down.  Jack ignores the outstretched handful of condoms for the moment, circles a downpointed finger; the boy obediently turns around so that Jack can take in the planes of his thighs, the sweet slope of ass, the admirable if mostly flaccid cock. 

 

“Bareback,” Jack says, dangling another bill.  Doesn’t always work.  Depends on how high or hungry the boy is this week, whether it’s his turn to buy rounds or bribe the barkeeps for the rainy nights he’s got to work indoors.  Must be a rough week, because the boy hesitates, then nods.  The bill crackles faintly in the air between them.

 

Jack stands, circles him slowly.  The boy follows him with his eyes, a little warily.  “Hands on the back of the bench,” Jack instructs. “Like that.  Legs a little wider.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the boy says, a rasp in the voice, but gamely scrambling for a little detachment as he complies.  “Gonna fuck me with that.  Give it to me, yeah,” and Jack tunes him out, because it’s just whore-talk, nothing for him there.  Have him singing another tune in a moment.

 

Jack runs a hand under the t-shirt, hitching it over the boy’s shoulders, and traces his palm over the smooth curve of the spine.  He ghosts a thumb along the cleft, and spreads the cheeks just a little, enough to slip fingers along the perineum and press gently behind the balls.  The boy jerks a little, a first shocked intake of breath, quickly stifled.  Ah, but those are just the opening bars, and Jack leans in to latch teeth on _that_  spot, below and a little behind the left ear.  The boy’s breath catches more audibly this time. And yes, that’s a shudder.

 

“Nice,” he murmurs, and sets to tracing the length of the spine with his tongue, as slowly as he can manage, savoring the ripple in the muscles and pausing, maddeningly, right at the sacrum. A whine, still stifled, and then Jack lifts his tongue and slips it right against the hole, rewarded with a full-out moan somewhere well down the register.

 

Jack lets himself revel a moment in the earthy scent, the thigh muscles’ flexing as he spreads the cheeks further, a few slow swipes dragging his lips downward; then sets about stabbing his tongue into the ass fiercely, an unrelenting rhythm that startles his quarry into speech for the first time: “ _Shit_ , shit shit, oh fuck,” bitten-off syllables, and he feels rather than sees the boy drop one hand to his cock. He bats it away and tugs the boy’s balls warningly.  “Hands stay on the bench,” he orders, a stilling palm on one thigh.

 

“You gonna fuck me already or what?” the boy asks breathily, a last stab at bravado, but Jack knows he’s got him now from the higher note, the tremor under his palm.  He pulls back.

 

He debates fucking the boy dry, but that’s a different music, one for savage nights when he’s full of Rift-rage and body-counts and the taste of failure. Tonight he wants the more familiar orchestration of tones and touches; traditional Welsh singing, he decides, and grins.  So he pulls a sachet from his coat pocket and bites it open, spilling the lube over the ass cheeks.  The boy shivers with the first finger, pushes back with the second, yes, that’s right, and – ah, there it is – swallows a guttural _fuck_  with the third.

 

Jack tugs those lean hips back now as he eases out his fingers – this angle, now, that took some learning, the precise balance of pain and pleasure to inflict with his first inward drive; the boy’s legs buckle a little as he shoves inside, and Jack hauls him up none too gently with one arm, splays the other hand over the abdomen.  He withdraws a little and snaps his hips hard, oh this sweet heat, slick as a cunt almost, maybe from another fuck tonight but who cares, because the boy vibrates under his cheek and says, “Oh god _, shit, please_.”

 

That’s the cue: he closes his hand around the kid’s cock and pulls back enough to really pound into him, and the boy fucks forward into his fist and just _opens_ , taking it all.  Muscle memory or not, this is perfect, and now – oh yes, now it comes, they’re playing his song:

 

It starts as a deep, growling note in the diaphragm, ascending in register, then a string of curses still gathering volume, accent thickening, and then a two-note “ah – ah – ah” as the boy swivels his pelvis to screw himself backwards, harder.  Cum pumps over Jack’s fist and the muscles around his cock contract so sharply that it’s painful; and then it’s his own heat rushing in, an abrupt shove into a harsh bliss full of old echoes.

 

The boy pitches forward onto his braced hands, chest still heaving, and Jack relaxes onto his spine for a long moment, rocking a little with the gasping motions.  He presses his mouth briefly to the boy’s shoulder, then rolls to one side.  His hand goes automatically to his coat pocket.

 

“Hey. Here, this’ll take the edge off,” Jack says, and slips the pill between his teeth while he’s still panting. “Get yourself home,” he adds, low.  “You’ll be coming down soon, and you really don’t want anyone else’s dick in you tonight, now do you?” Boy throws his head back, swallows.  “Nah,” he says.  “Yeah, ta mate.” He looks Jack full in the face, and that’s the last thing Jack waits for, that wide-eyed, uncertain moment when all agendas go off the table. Nothing hidden away.  Just them.

 

The boy pushes himself off the bench a little clumsily, doing up his flies. “See you about, then?” he says, rocking slightly on his feet.

 

“Yeah, sure thing,” Jack answers, and stands still, watching that fine denim-defined ass retreat a little unsteadily down the path.

 

He misses the suits, sometimes, but you can’t have everything.

 


End file.
